


with my heart spilt on the living room floor

by roboticdisposition



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Denial of Feelings, Jealousy, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possessive Behavior, Set in Season Four, Smut, Teasing, it dont really matter, mickey buries his feelings in violence and sex, mickey is a jealous man but he will not admit he is a jealous man, mickey is not a happy man, mickey sees men touching him, set when ian is working at the fairy tale, the troubles of a milkovich, vaguely canon but it can be read as an au really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-12-17 00:35:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21045383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roboticdisposition/pseuds/roboticdisposition
Summary: “Fucking dirty hands on you, man,” He heaves a breath, his head pounding, but he can’t stop talking, “Fucking touching you, fucking entitled pieces of fucking-”“Mickey,” Ian laughs, the sound shutting him up. He’s spinning, dizzy off a single beer. “It’s a job, get yourself together, bitch.” He rolls his eyes, stepping closer, dipping his head into his ear, “Now stop being jealous, yeah? That’s the third guy you’ve told to fuck off in the hour, let me earn my tips.” Ian laughs, breathy whispers in his ear. Mickey refuses to believe the shivers wracking through his spine are a result of it.





	with my heart spilt on the living room floor

**Author's Note:**

> hi so this sort of just,,, spiralled huh
> 
> so as the tags say this is jealous mickey about ian in the club but he's more jealous about not having ian to himself than actually the men in the club
> 
> mickey has a lot of feelings he's just really shit at dealing with them
> 
> see also: i love fucking mickey milkovich
> 
> but no so this is set in the fairytale so it takes place in season four, but okay, so in this, it focuses on how mickey deals with feelings, so u can either take it as an AU, or with the assumption that ian is currently stable and okay working at the fairytale, so u can take it however u want canonically but this doesn't divulge in ian's mania nor any details regarding his disappearance, so u can either assume they happened or didn't. thank u goodnight
> 
> now that i've ran my mouth i'll shut up i hope u enjoy though thank u for reading xxx

“Get your fucking hands off him, a’ight?” Mickey grunts into the man’s ear, his weight pushing him back against the bar, his fingers tied up in his jacket. The man is old: grey-rooted hair, leather jacket, wrinkled indents around his eyes. He’s old, and he was fucking trying to touch  _ him _ . He was trying to touch  _ Ian _ .

The man tries to push him off, glimmering for a hint of leverage, “Let me go, man-”

“I’ll fucking let you go the instant you tell me you aren’t gonna fucking touch him.” Mickey’s breathing heavy, any oxygen he’s got left is stuck in his throat. It’s stuffy in here, under dim-lit lights, dancing bodies, skin, skin, skin. It’s stuffy and Mickey wants to leave, he wants to drag Ian back home, back to his house, back to his bed, but he’s too busy dancing.

He’s up on a podium, a short golden thong across his hips, a smirk across his face. Mickey calls this torture, watching him, twisting his body around, watching men saddle up, tuck notes in his waistband. Mickey doesn’t think he belongs here, under hungry eyes, always wanting, never enough. But Ian’s not going anywhere, he’s got hours left on his shift. Mickey’s counting down the minutes.

“Christ!” The man huffs, shoving Mickey backwards; his attention sways from Ian to the grey-rooted man, annoyed he let himself get pushed back out of distraction. “I won’t fucking touch him, is that all you want? Can I fucking go now?” The man hisses, straightening out his cuffs, slow breaths hazing through the spotlights.

Mickey hums, playing with his lips, the whole thing dancing around like a game, “As long as I never see you near him again,” he says, stepping closer, words bitten into the man’s ear, pressed against the bar, “Then yeah, you can fucking go.” He steps back suddenly, rubbing a hand across his mouth as he watches the man eyeing up the exit. “Now, I meant, fucking go now-” Mickey says, rubbing at his eyes, watching the man finally start to stumble away.

Mickey stands in the heat of the moment, his jacket still heavy across his shoulders. The world moves around him, dancers, men, spotlights, but he lets himself stay still. He clenches at his eyes, pressing fingertips into his skull as he curses under his breath. He swore he wouldn’t let himself out of control, he  _ swore _ , but this place, this fucking place, it does things to him. Or maybe it’s the person, not the place.

“Hey,” A voice hums in his ear, Mickey spins on his feet, readying his shoulder to punch, before it all clicks back into place and Ian’s standing in front of him, a foot away, with raised eyebrows and a narrow smirk dancing across his lips. “You’re running off my customers, huh?”

“Fuck off, would you?” Mickey grumbles, shuffling on his toes. He watches Ian eye him up and down, waiting, waiting, and then Mickey cracks. “Fucking dirty hands on you, man,” He heaves a breath, his head pounding, but he can’t stop talking, “Fucking  _ touching _ you, fucking entitled pieces of fucking-”

“Mickey,” Ian laughs, the sound shutting him up. He’s spinning, dizzy off a single beer. “It’s a job, get yourself together, bitch.” He rolls his eyes, stepping closer, dipping his head into his ear, “Now stop being jealous, yeah? That’s the third guy you’ve told to fuck off in the hour, let me earn my tips.” Ian laughs, breathy whispers in his ear. Mickey refuses to believe the shivers wracking through his spine are a result of it.

Ian steps back, taking in his body again, Mickey shuffles on the spot, the spotlights dancing over his head, missing him, but Ian’s eyes wash him in neon anyway. He winks at him before turning back, hints of laughter chasing him over his shoulder. Mickey watches him go, swinging his hips back to the podium as men cheer for his return. He feels sick, he feels fucking sick, but he can’t take his eyes off it all, off  _ him _ .

Ian’s dancing, grinding with his hands pushing down his chest as his eyes skirt through the crowd. Mickey can’t take his eyes off him, but neither can the rest of the men surrounding his platform. He feels something swirling in his gut, something sharp and bitter; it’s this sinking feeling that’s tying up a storm, getting him caught in a hurricane, but he can’t look away, he can’t fucking look away.

He’s wound up, he eventually decides, and tells himself he needs another beer. Mickey clenches his eyes shut momentarily before narrowed eyebrows furrow over his eyelids, scouting the room as everyone dances around him. Ian catches his eye, smirking with his eyebrows raised, Mickey takes it like a challenge, like he’s mocking him, taunting him, like he can see right through him into his insides, burrowed feeling in his blood.

Mickey snaps his eyes away, blurred visions under spotlights, explosions and pulses of music ticking. He can’t wait until the end of Ian’s shift, when he can storm out the door, drag Ian behind him, and pretend nothing’s happening until the next night comes. It’s a routine he’s familiar with after watching Ian in the club night after night, again and again. He tells himself it’s because he’s got nothing better to do from ten until four in the morning, but he doesn’t know who he’s kidding.

He takes one more look at Ian, golden fabric wrapped tight around his hips, emphasising every moment, every movement, glittering colours under the neon lights. He takes one last look and stalks to the bar. He throws enough notes on the counter for a beer, tapping his fingers roughly against the counter as the bare-chested man behind the bar grabs it for him. He refuses to turn back, just for a moment, and tries to lean against the bar, sip his beer, but it doesn’t last long, because his body’s betraying him, spinning on the spot to watch him again, catch the redhead out of the bodies.

And he looks fucking-

He takes a breath, he takes a fucking breath and cuts himself off. He doesn’t want to hear the rest of that thought, but he looks on regardless of the myriad of unaccepted truths streaming through his veins. Ian’s got this sheen of sweat dancing over his shoulders, down his chest, dipping into his hips. He’s glowing, but Mickey tells himself it’s only the lights, bright fucking club lights that obscure him, that take him away.

He drains the rest of his beer, barely even tasting it before he’s pushing his way through the crowd so he’s nearby again. And then he’s stopping in his tracks, because Ian’s stepping off his podium and huddling up to this man. He’s got tinted brown hair, but wrinkles under his eyes - it’s a common trait really, and he’d find it funny if he weren’t advancing on Ian like he’s prey. Mickey thinks the man’s a fucking bitch, even from a distance. But he can’t do anything when Ian’s whispering in his ear, grinding against his side, dodging out of the way of the man’s eager hands.

Mickey can’t breathe, he’s stuck in this moment, where he can’t move, and he can’t think, and he’s trapped with this sinking dread throughout his throat, easing down his chest until it’s settled in his stomach. He can’t fucking breathe. He wants to rip Ian away, drag his shoulders back, tug against his hips until he’s following him out the door, into the cold, stumbling away and never looking back. But he can’t move. He can’t fucking move.

The man edges his fingertips into his own back pocket, tugging out a pile of notes, flicking through them under the hazy shadow Ian’s body casts against him until he’s reaching forward and tucking the notes into the side of Ian’s shorts, the elastic snapping back against his body. Mickey releases a shaky breath and watches Ian drag him to the side, pushing him back against the worn-out cushioned bench and smirking down at him from above.

He dances, and he dances, and he dances, and Mickey wants to punch him. Or not him, but the man he’s grinding on, all hips and pulse. The man’s looking at Ian like he wants to eat him alive; he’s licking his lips, reaching out strangled hands, only to be batted away by Ian’s wrists, and he’s hard in his slacks. Mickey wants to fucking murder him.

Time is frozen as Ian dances and Mickey wishes it would fucking hurry up. He’s seconds away from dragging Ian off him, tips and job be fucking damned. It’s this sinking tension in his stomach again, growing and expanding until he can’t feel anything else. He swallows thick in his throat, gritting his teeth as Ian turns around, pushes his ass back into the man’s lap before twisting his hips.

Mickey’s watching like he’s got fires burning through his eyes, and suddenly Ian’s catching his gaze, raising an eyebrow as he watches him watching. Mickey tries to look away, pretend he wasn’t looking, pretend he wasn’t angry, but his eyes don’t look away. Ian’s smirking now, resting his hands on his thighs as he winks his way, turning back to the man again with a flick of his neck. It’s dismissive, Mickey thinks, and then that’s it.

Mickey’s clenching his fists as he shoves bodies out of the way and stomps next to the pair of them. The man looks worse close up, a nose crooked enough that it’s simply asking to be broken again; Mickey tells himself he wouldn’t mind the pleasure. Ian glances out the corner of his eye, watching him advance, but he doesn’t move, he doesn’t look his way, he doesn’t do anything.

“Okay fucking Cinderella, time’s up,” He growls, tensed fists clenched by his sides, thumbs tucked outside his knuckles like he’s preparing a punch. “My turn, get the fuck away.” Mickey cocks an eye, waiting, watching, and then Ian’s laughing.

“Guess that’s time up, come find me again if you want another one,” Ian whispers in the man’s ear, winking at him as he trails his palms down his thighs, taking a step back before eyeing Mickey head on.

“You heard him,” Mickey hisses, staring at Ian even though he’s talking to the guy still fucking sat on his ass besides them. “Get the fuck away,” And he turns to the man, and watches his eyes open wide with the address before scuttling off. Mickey breathes, and he breathes, and he tries to unravel the tension in his stomach, but Ian gets there first.

“You want a dance then, huh?” He smirks, hanging off his side, hips still swaying beside him. “‘Cos if you don’t, I’ll have to move on-”

“Fuck you,” Mickey grunts, opening his wallet before the words are even fully formed. He can tell Ian’s smirking, face all rosy, jaw jutted out, chin raised as he waits. Mickey hands the money out, pushing it towards Ian’s fist.

“Uh uh,” Ian laughs, shaking his head, “You know the drill.” He cocks a hip to one side, looking down to gesture at his shorts. Mickey feels his head spinning, dizzy and sick. He opens his mouth to protest, thinking he can’t stand any more than this, but Ian cuts him off. “I’ll move on in three… two…” And Mickey shoves the notes down the front of his shorts.

“Happy now?”

Ian smirks, licking his lips, “Absolutely.” He pushes him back against the bench, hands warm against his shoulders, shoving him back until he’s seated and he’s staring up at Ian like he’s the in control. And he is, he is, and the worst thing is that Mickey doesn’t mind it. He feels sick, out of his depth, under pressure he can’t contain, but he doesn’t dare move, and he doesn’t dare complain. He sits and feels his muscles tense, his body shaking under the weight of it all. He stares up at Ian, standing there powerful, hazy, the control taken with the notes in his waistband. Mickey tries to catch his breath - adjust to it all, but before he can, Ian starts to dance.

And he’s fucking good, he’s so fucking stupidly good. Mickey feels himself sweating, watching Ian like he’s made for this, muscled thighs and toned abs, and Ian knows it. He smirks, watching Mickey eye up his body, twisting in his spot to slide up his thighs before turning back on himself, hovering over Mickey’s lap.

Mickey’s fists are still clenched by his sides, tossed haphazardly against the bench as Ian dances, knowing if he reaches out, just for a second, and he feels his skin, all warm and firm under his fingertips, he’ll be dragging them out the door within the minute. So he keeps his hands firmly by his sides, but he can’t say the same for Ian.

Ian’s hands are pressed into his shoulders, keeping him down, keeping him steady. And he uses him as leverage, to drop down and back up, to keep him suspended above his lap as he twists his hips, swaying and grinding his body down. Until his fingers are trailing down the zip of Mickey’s jacket, hovering between the buttons of his shirt, twisting down the fabric until they’re playing with his belt.

“I didn’t think you were supposed to touch,” Mickey says heavily, feeling a weight dragging him down, his breath clipped, dragged out against Ian’s neck. His hands are resting at his buckle while his hips sway, circling his lap. Mickey pushes against it, feeling his breath stuck in his throat, feeling himself sick being so needy, watching Ian smirking above him as his hands dance towards the tent in his jeans.

Ian laughs, starting to pull his hand away, “I can stop, if that’s what you’d prefer-”

“Fuck you,” Mickey struggles, bucking up into Ian’s palm, aching for it. Ian shakes his head, laughing as he grinds forward against Mickey’s thighs. He keeps dancing through it all, his fingertips teasing as he runs his hands around Mickey’s thighs, dodging where he wants him most. It’s purposeful, it’s fucking sickening, and Mickey wants to strangle him, but he doesn’t, and suddenly his time’s up.

“If you want another dance, you know where to find me, yeah?” Ian says with a smirk, the words are breathy against his ear, shivers down his neck erupting in protest as Ian pulls away, dragging his thighs off him, his hands away from his hips, and suddenly Mickey’s looking around, remembering where they are, remembering they’re not alone.

He jumps up and clenches his jaw shut, he feels himself hard in his jeans, aching like it’s been years since he was last touched instead of earlier that day. He hates it, that Ian has this fucking effect on him. He hates it, and it’s only in hesitant moments like this, when he’s not thinking clearly, will he admit Ian has an effect at all.

But it’s obvious, when he’s watching Ian strut away, heading back to the podium with swaying hips, throwing a wink his direction over his shoulder. It’s obvious, that Mickey’s a fucking lost cause. He clenches his teeth, keeps his fingers tightly wrapped in his fists, and he watches as Ian pulls himself up to start dancing again, counting down the seconds until he can rip him away again.

He doesn’t want dirty fucking hands across him, across Ian. he doesn’t want hands on him at all unless they’re his own. He doesn’t want to be here, sitting, waiting, until Ian’s his again. Because he is, he’s fucking his. And Mickey’s never liked to share.

\--

“Where you going, huh?” Ian yells, the front door slamming behind them. They’re in Mickey’s house, the silence reeking like bad memories as Ian’s words echo. Mickey shoots to the fridge, desperate, he pulls out a beer and tilts the liquid down his throat. It’s cold, it’s bitter, but it’s not enough.

It’s early now, fucking half past four in the morning. Mickey wonders why he does it, staying up, lurking around Boystown, waiting until the night is over and Ian’s not sat on a strangers lap. He knows the answer, he reckons somewhere deep down he’s always known the answer. But he’s never wanted to admit it.

“Fuck off, alright?” Mickey grunts, pausing to slam the empty bottle on the counter, shifting antsy on his toes as Ian steps closer towards the kitchen. He feels trapped, but it’s not filling him with dread. It’s different when it’s Ian, when it’s not Terry running at him with a pistol and bruised knuckles. It’s different, but he still feels cornered, waiting as Ian gets closer, tilting his head, watching him like he’s a caged animal.

“You…” Ian trails off, Mickey raises an eyebrow; it’s a challenge and they both know it, but Ian’s not shifting, he’s just watching him. He’s watching him with narrowed eyes, a sneaking jut to his chin, broad shoulders like he’s ready for an explosion.

“I what, Gallagher? Fucking spit it out.”

Ian sighs, rubbing his face with his knuckles, but he’s got that glint in his eye. He’s not giving up easy, but Mickey’s played this game before -  _ they’ve  _ played this game before. He knows what this is, even if he doesn’t know who they are.

“You’re a fucking pussy,” Ian eventually hums, but there’s no bite. Mickey’s eyes shoot up, daggers aiming straight for Ian’s cheeks. And then Ian’s smiling, he’s smiling and he’s raising his hand up to open the fridge until suddenly he’s glugging back a beer as well. Mickey watches him, the shift in his throat, the cut of his jaw, the way his fingers wrap around the bottle. He watches like it’s a game of chess, and then he realises it’s his move.

“You fucking what?” Mickey says, stepping closer. “You’re really gonna fucking stand there and call me a pussy, huh?” He laughs bitterly, raising his eyebrows, but Ian’s still smirking, placing the empty bottle down on the counter next to Mickey’s. “You don’t think that’s a bit hypocritical?”

Ian recoils in something akin to shock before he’s laughing, angling his body to push Mickey back against the counter. “Hypocritical?” He rolls his eyes, barks a laugh to the side of Mickey’s ear, “I’m not the one who knows what they want but is too fucking afraid to say something.”

Mickey’s blood starts to drain, his face pale. He’s aiming for unaffected, nonchalant, but he misses the mark and he’s not fooling anyone. “Fuck you,” Mickey spits in his face, “Fuck you,” He says again, softer as he feels Ian’s breath casting shadows across his cheeks. And then Ian’s pulling away.

“Think you’re this fucking tough guy, don’t you?” Ian starts, turning his back, heading towards the front room. “All threats, power, but you’re drowning-”

“Fuck you,” Mickey hisses again, his body stuck in the kitchen, pushed back against the counter. Ian’s hands holding his hips back with an imaginary force and Mickey can’t move. He’s holding himself still, recoiled against the counter.

He blames it on the time, the midnight hour, the early morning, the sun streaming through the half-torn blinds. He calls himself tired, tells himself that’s why he’s not fighting back, tells himself that’s why Ian’s getting to him, eating holes in his heart like he’s bloodthirsty. But it’s all just an excuse, he reckons maybe it’s always been excuses.

“You’re drowning,” Ian says again, turning to face him, standing behind the sofa. The words are harsher, each syllable, every sound, each nudge of Ian’s lips, it’s emphasised, it’s bitter, and Mickey feels a fire in his lungs. “You’re drowning, Mick, aren’t you? Because you’re so torn up about what you want, what you don’t want, and you’re too fucking afraid to do anything about it-”

“You don’t know a fucking thing, Gallagher,” Mickey cuts in, razors on his tongue.

“Actually, I think I do,” Ian smiles, he fucking smiles. His face bright, his words bitter. It’s a contradiction that slices pieces through Mickey, right between his ribs, until he’s bleeding against his top, burgundy seeping into white. “Because you’re so caught up in it, that it’s eating you alive.”

There’s a moment of silence: the calm before the storm. And Mickey’s pushing off against the counter, his eyes blazing, his lungs aching. He feels hands twisting in his chest, playing with his heart like it’s still attached, only when he’s standing in front of Ian, broad-shouldered and smirking, he wonders if it is.

“You’re such a fucking bitch,” Mickey presses, pushing his fingertips against Ian’s shoulders, feeling burning heat under his skin. “You’re a fucking bitch, thinking you know everything, but you fucking don’t, you  _ don’t _ .”

Ian smiles, letting Mickey push him, fingers digging into his shoulders. “If that’s what you wanna tell yourself-”

“It’s the fucking truth,” Mickey protests, but it’s weak, it’s weak even to his own ears.

“But it’s not, is it?” Ian challenges, eventually pushing back, his palms shoving against Mickey’s chest, the gap widening between them. Mickey doesn’t register the ache, instead, he feels the pull, the draw, the way he wants to stumble forwards again, feel Ian’s breath on his cheek, keep him close, his body warm. But instead, he winces and stays back.

Mickey doesn’t answer, he’s too busy twisting on his feet, wound-up tight like a coil as he stands there, waiting for Ian to say something else, to push him further, to drag the warmth out of him like a second skin. Mickey’s looking at him with carved out eyes, and Ian’s warm, pink cheeks from the cold, shaped chest through his shirt. He’s looking at him like he’s thinking of ways to murder him, and maybe that’s not too far from the truth.

But eventually Ian steps closer, he reaches out a hand and pushes hard against Mickey’s chest until they’re both stumbling backwards. Mickey’s back hits against the wall near the door, he can hear the whistling cold from outside, the faint hum of sirens, and he tenses, but Ian’s grabbing at his chest, pushing him back, and he remembers where he is, in some twisted version of a daydream, some false variety of safety.

“Fuck you,” Mickey says when Ian steps closer. And that’s all it takes. Ian’s pushing off Mickey’s coat, dragging nails through the fabric coating his shoulders as he pushes Mickey back, clashing their mouths together like they’re desperate.

And Ian tastes intoxicating, he can’t deny it. Mickey licks into his mouth with a fervour he can’t contain, feeling dizzy with each kiss, but he doesn’t stop. Ian breaks away, panting heavily against his cheek, though Mickey doesn’t give him enough time to breathe, and he’s colliding their tongues together, twisting manically in violent desperation.

“You’re jealous,” Ian breaks away, the truth finally seeping into the air, the whole point, the centre, eye of the fucking storm, it leaves Ian’s lips, panting as he pushes Mickey’s flannel down his arms. The words are soft, quiet, but Mickey hears them and he freezes. He feels a sickness engulfing his body, Ian’s hands over his skin. He feels ripped open, laid out bare, exposed for the world to see.

Mickey’s hands reach for Ian’s jacket, “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.” Because it’s easier to lie, it’s always been easier to lie. And he finally wraps his fingers in the fabric hunched around Ian’s neck, grabbing him closer to meet their lips again, he sucks heavily against Ian’s lips, clothes dragging off their arms, their bodies pushed together, desperation thick in the gaps between.

Mickey pants heavily when the world doesn’t stop spinning, Ian’s kissing down his neck, sucking bruises into his collar bone. He feels empty, pressed back against the door, with Ian’s words echoing around his skull, bouncing, demanding to be heard. And Mickey hears them because it’s all he can fucking hear. He feels terrified, his heart falling heavy against the floor, his blood leaking out. He tries to deny what the words mean, what the night means, what any of this means, and all he can find is excuses.

He moans when Ian breathes warm against the mark sucked into his neck, his head thumping back against the wall. His eyes half-shut, dragging his hands over Ian’s chest, pulling up his shirt. He feels sick, dizzy, the world freezing. He’s torn, between this aching truth, and a raging war, and in the end, he’s stuck in the middle, trying to deny Ian’s truths, covering it up with blood and bruises.

“You’re fucking jealous,” Ian says again when Mickey’s finally got his shirt off. He’s smug when he says it, like he’s cracked it, like that’s all there is to it. And maybe it is, and maybe it fucking is. But Mickey’s never been one for spilt truths. Ian raises his eyebrows, waiting for his reaction, and Mickey thinks he wants to punch him in the stomach, rough and hard, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t remember the last time he followed through with it; Ian’s making him weak.

“You-” Mickey starts, but he looks away, unable to face the blaze in Ian’s eyes. It’s not backing down, it’s self-preservation, he tells himself. Milkovich’s don’t back down, so he’s not. He looks heavy at the cobwebs in the corner and he says, “You’re a fucking bitch, you know that, right?”

Ian laughs, leaning in closer, the control still firmly in his hands, tucked into his palms. Mickey fights for it back with his hands around his waist, bare skin under his fingertips, pressing deep with his nails, cresent moons resting between his ribs. “That’s not a denial, huh?” And before Mickey can reply, Ian’s kissing him; one hand trailed around his neck, the other gripping tight on his hip, carving marks through his jeans with his fingernails.

Mickey feels the world like it’s on fire, ashes and embers alight under their feet, filling the air around them. Ian keeps him breathing, dragging their mouths together, but it’s too slow, he’s not getting enough air. Mickey tries to pull Ian closer, keep it rough, keep it harsh, keep it where he can pretend it’s just sex, but Ian’s too far gone, licking into his mouth slowly, dominating the kiss with soft languid presses of his tongue.

Mickey tries to find another excuse: the late night, early morning, the hours spent waiting in the club, the cold walk home, the alcohol. He tries, he fucking  _ tries _ to find a reason, something he can blame this on, something that’s not… that’s not the truth, that’s not the echo spinning around in his head. Because he’s not fucking… he ‘s not fucking jealous.

Only he can’t find another excuse, he can’t drag up a reason, and he’s pressing his body closer into Ian’s, looking for someone to lean on - though he’d never admit it - and he’s searching for something that makes sense. But he comes up empty again, because the only thing that’s ever made sense is the bare tangle of feelings in his chest; the only thing that’s ever made sense is the truth.

Ian’s dragging Mickey’s shirt off now, greedy hands against bare skin, and Mickey’s giving it back as good as he gets, digging fingernails into Ian’s back, tugging him in closer, tracing clenched fists around his waist. Their chests touch and it’s so warm despite the cold, Mickey feels himself burning from the inside out, a flicker like a lighter streaming through his blood. Ian’s so warm and Mickey can’t get him close enough.

“Bedroom,” Mickey grunts, tugging away from Ian’s mouth, “Fucking move.” He’s panting, breathless, trying to forge, but Ian’s smirking, pressing a knee between Mickey’s thighs, spreading his legs like he’s a fucking whore. Mickey tries to protest, opens his mouth but Ian shuts him up with his tongue, keeping himself busy as he grinds himself against Mickey, his lower stomach aching, his dick throbbing.

“Not yet,” Ian smiles, enjoying this, enjoying  _ him _ . Mickey can’t decide how he feels, only he knows it’s this feeling, this feeling he only gets with Ian when they’re alone. It’s this feeling he doesn’t want to name, doesn’t want to acknowledge, but he finds himself doing it every time. It’s torture, but Mickey doesn’t think that’s ever stopped him before. Ian’s the worst fucking drug of them all and Mickey’s a terrible, terrible fucking addict.

It’s this feeling of desperation, aching sighs, burning heat. He’s exposed, even with his jeans still on; nobody home but them. It’s Ian, and Mickey tells himself he hates it, hates  _ him _ . But he doesn’t, he doesn’t really. He doesn’t think he ever has, no matter how much he wants to.

Ian stretches his palm between their bodies, grasping at Mickey’s cock through his jeans, “Want me then, huh?” Ian teases, and Mickey’s a bit too slow on the uptake; the world’s spinning, everything blurred except Ian, his skin, his touch, his fucking heat. He’s a bit too slow, so he lets himself nod, hungry and incapable. He wants this, he thinks, truth and all, but the thought fucks off before he can give it any weight.

“Yes, fucking Christ, Ian,” Mickey hisses, bucking his hips as Ian’s fingers rub along his zipper, “I fucking want you, hurry up.” He’s spouting words like he’s lost control of his mouth as well as his body. He tells himself he’s wound up, it’s late, it’s early, and it’s a fucking good excuse. He thinks it’s just dirty talk, it’s just to rile him up, it’s just so Ian can see him weak, watch him beg. He hates it, only he doesn’t. It’s a terrifying and reoccurring theme, one that makes Mickey’s blood simmer through his veins.

Ian pulls away, watching him with raised eyebrows, narrowed eyes. Mickey’s still grinding against his palm, the moment catching up to him, echoes of words thrumming through his brain, rough hands pushing against each other’s skin. It’s overwhelming, it’s fucking intoxicating, and Mickey thinks it’s too much, but it hasn’t even started.

“You’re so wound up,” Ian smirks, watching as Mickey squirms, antsy toes shuffling to break away from the wall. “It’s almost like I was right.”

Mickey stops, panting heavily, dodging Ian’s eyes as he raises his hands to push him back, hoping to drag him to his room. “Fucking right about what?” Mickey says, but he already knows. He ignores it, lets blissful ignorance tick on for a moment longer while his fingertips finally get leverage, pushing Ian back. The space between them’s cold but he’s storming towards the bedroom before he can give it another thought. He’s desperate, he’s so fucking hard, and he just needs this, he’s just fucking pent-up, and he needs to get it sorted. But Ian’s not following him. He stands still in his doorway, waiting with clenched fists and a tilted jaw. He knows what’s about to fall before it does but it doesn’t make it any better, standing waiting for Ian to cut into his chest and carve out a hole.

“You’re jealous,” Ian says again, and Mickey feels the fire chasing him. “That’s all it is, you’re fucking jealous.” Mickey stares at him, leaning heavily into the doorway, cold wood pressed into his back. When it’s clear he’s not going to respond, Ian carries on. “I knew earlier, at the club. When you chased away my customers, when you interrupted my dance, when you dragged me out of there at one minute past four so no one else would look at me.”

Mickey opens his mouth to protest, a fueling anger bubbling through his chest, but Ian’s glaring at him, enough to shut him up before he’s even begun. Mickey feels helpless, trapped, again, like he can’t do anything to escape, he can’t run from this, from Ian, from something so achingly accurate he can hardly breathe.

Ian steps forward, pounding footsteps as he carries on, “You’re fucking jealous, that’s why you’re so fucking-” He cuts himself off, shaking his head as he laughs, gesturing at Mickey like the proof is in front of his eyes. Mickey shuffles on his toes, shame seeping through him, spotlights caught across his chest. “That’s why you’re like this, you don’t want other men touching me, you hate it when I give them dances at the club because you want me all to yourself-”

“Fuck you,” Mickey finally bites back, his stance tightly coiled in the doorway. He doesn’t move, he’s too cornered. “I don’t fucking care.” He tries to shrug, aiming for careless, but the fire in his eyes give it away, the broad set jaw, the clench in his cheekbones. He knows Ian can tell right away, and he feels sick - caught out.

He looks smug, Ian does, when he’s a couple of feet away and his arms are limp by his sides, his chest bare, open and broad. He looks so fucking smug, and Mickey wants to punch him, take bruises into his chest, rippling down his skin.

His heart’s still on the floor, caught somewhere between the living room and the doorway, long lost and forgotten. Mickey’s bleeding out, pathways draped across the floorboards, purple-tinted water and wine. He feels sick, watching Ian, watching him. He feels sick; he wants to get out of this body, out of this world. He doesn’t want to be here, with Ian looking at him like  _ that _ . He’s looking at him like he knows him, and Mickey supposes he does, he fucking does. He supposes that’s been the problem all along.

“You do care, Mick,” Ian laughs, his tone leaning harsh, bitter. He storms forward, “And I wonder why that is, huh?” He stops in front of Mickey, pressing his body back against the doorway, aching bones clashing throughout the house. “It’s almost like… It’s almost like you don’t want anyone else touching me, you don’t want them kissing me, touching me, being fucked by me. And that’s why you’re a pussy, ‘cos you’ll never fucking admit it.”

Mickey’s breath is stuck in his throat, a burning pain, a wave of seething anger, it’s all caught up in his body. He feels ready to erupt, knuckles and bruises, guns and amo. It’s all fucking too much, his head’s spinning. He wants another fucking drink, but he doesn’t dare move to get one. It’s delicate but it’s angry, it’s too many fucking emotions, and Mickey hates it, he hates it.

He’s boiling over, spilling across with blood on his hands, and Ian’s standing too close, too fucking close. And he’s shaking, Ian’s clenching his fists, firm in his place, but Mickey can tell, he can sense it. And then they’re kissing, Mickey’s clattering forwards, twisting himself up in an aching display of desperation, and Ian’s grabbing Mickey’s body steady, hot tongues melting together.

It’s agony, with his blood simmering, irritation, frustration building, but Ian drags them back into Mickey’s room and pushes Mickey back onto the bed, twisting his own jeans off down his thighs, kicking his clothes across the room. “Fucking take your fucking jeans off,” Ian says with gritted teeth, roughened edges. He knows it’s affecting Ian just as much as it’s affecting him just by the tone of his voice.

Mickey strips, lying back on the bed, twisting under Ian’s gaze. He’s vulnerable, he hates it, but Ian knows him, he knows him too fucking much, so he’s covering his body with his own, stopping the feeling in its tracks, sucking bruises next to the earlier one down his neck and pressing Mickey’s head back against the pillow.

Breathy moans fill the silence, fill the empty house. It’s desperate, and it’s cold, and Ian’s body is a heavy presence on top of his own. He’s grounding, he’s warm, and Mickey feels himself sinking into it, he feels himself drowning, and he thinks Ian knows too fucking much. He wonders when it stopped becoming a problem.

“Get the fucking lube,” Mickey groans, Ian’s body pressing down across his own, their cocks pressing together with an unreckoned force, aching sighs speaking volumes. Ian laughs, grabbing at Mickey’s drawers before forcing Mickey over, twisting him on his front, his cock stuck leaking in the bedsheets.

He’s waiting, clenched eyelids pressed into his pillow, his pillow that smells of Ian, from the rare nights he sleeps over, when Mickey pretends to be too tired to kick him out. It’s rare, it’s fucking rare, so when it happens, Mickey makes sure not to wash his sheets, just so he can keep the smell around it a bit longer. But he blames it on a moment of weakness, admitting that to himself, because Ian’s pressing a finger at his entrance and Mickey’s losing his mind.

“Fucking hell,” He groans, digging fists into the sheets, breathless curses lost in the pillowcase as Ian slips in another finger. He’s overheating, burning up, caught in this lie, in this life - caught somewhere in between. Ian starts scissoring his fingers, stretching Mickey open, but there’s an urgency in the touch of his hands, the way one pulls his hips up, the other pistoning inside him. Mickey doesn’t mind, he fucking doesn’t mind at all. It’s better, when it’s rough, when it’s hard, when he doesn’t have to think.

“I was watching you earlier, you know,” Ian mumbles, dragging his fingers out only to push them back in harder. Mickey muffles out a moan, huffing the air into his pillow. It feels different this time, raw, with Ian catching him out with something that resembles the truth too closely to deny. It feels devastating, and Mickey thinks he feels the world shattering beneath him.

“Fuck off,” He grits his teeth, stiffling the high-pitched noises Ian’s forcing him to make, his fingers twisting against his prostate with roughened pads of his fingertips.

Ian laughs and leans forward, whispering into his ear, “I could see how much you were fucking seething every time another man came up to me, asked for a dance, even so much as called me pretty-”

“Shut your fucking mouth,” Mickey spits with venom, trying to forget, trying to get lost in it, trying to pretend Ian hasn’t caught him like this, with his fists curled into the sheets, his muscles tense. Even now he feels himself growing with this unexplained inexplicable sense of devastation at the scene of the club; he can still see it, the first man, the second man, the third, fourth - after that, it became a blur.

It’s this hole in his stomach, eating away at his tissue until he crumbles, and it’s getting close. It’s this bleeding hole that feels so fucking empty, ripped open, whenever he pictures it, Ian on their laps, their hands digging into his shorts to tip him, Ian smirking at them like he does at him.

It’s devastation, it’s fucking cruel, and Mickey can’t fucking breathe. It’s agony, picturing it now, twisted faces behind the images in his head, actions and elbows all a little bit off. He can see Ian kissing one of them now, though he knows that never happened, and then he’s pushing someone over the bar, and then he’s telling Mickey he doesn’t compare, but none of it happened. None of it fucking happened.

It’s all in his head, this fucking stupid picture exaggerated, the fear he supposes, dragging it out of him. He hates himself for it, this moment of vulnerability where he can’t force the images away, where he can’t deny he feels something, where he can’t stop himself wanting Ian all to himself. It’s selfish, he tries to tell himself, but he doesn’t fucking give a shit. He wants him, he fucking wants him, and no one else can have him.

“You’re mine, a’ight, Gallagher?” Mickey hisses into the pillow after a moment of silence. The words slice through the thin air, and Ian’s fingers stilt in him suddenly. Mickey doesn’t open his eyes, he doesn’t move, he keeps his fingers tight in the sheets; he can’t tell everything’s changed this way, in the dark with his eyes shut.

Ian huffs a breath, shaky against Mickey’s neck. He doesn’t find it in himself to be mad, tell Ian to fuck off, tell him to fuck him. All he can feel is this searing white spike through his stomach and an innate need to keep what’s his to himself. And Ian is his. Ian is fucking his.

Suddenly Ian’s pulling his fingers out, withdrawing them so quickly that Mickey feels empty for a moment, clenching on something he can’t feel. And he feels so fucking stupid, letting Ian do this, letting Ian in, letting any of this happen in the first place. And he feels so fucking stupid for not regretting it.

“You fucking-” Ian starts before stopping himself. Mickey resists twisting to look at what he means, he’s exposed enough as it is; Ian eventually carries on, but all he says is, “Yeah,” like it’s response enough. And it is, it fucking is. Mickey hears the rip of a condom and feels relief spreading through him like a curse.

“Get the fuck on with it then,” Mickey snaps, squirming against the bedsheets, his dick under his stomach aching for something more Ian huffs a laugh, spreading his palms wide across Mickey’s hips, his fingernails digging in. Mickey groans, not even trying to withhold the sound; they’re not used to this, having the house to themselves, not lately, not after everything, where Mickey doesn’t have to be afraid to make noise.

Ian pushes against Mickey’s hips, raising his thighs to line up his cock, pressing it to his rim teasingly before suddenly pushing in. Mickey feels the breath leaving his lungs as Ian fills him up from the inside out, he’s ripped open, spread raw. It’s so fucking rough as Ian starts up a rhythm almost instantly, only giving him a second to bottom out.

It’s desperate, Mickey’s body jerking with each thrust, and he’s never wanted it more. He feels this claim to him in this moment, with the light cracking through the windows, when no one’s home and Ian’s not with anyone else. Mickey lets himself feel sick at the thought, but he doesn’t push it away. He can’t think clearly when Ian’s been all he’s thought about all evening. It does things to a man.

“Fuck-” Mickey drags out, the curse like a prayer from his lips. It’s unspoken what he means, what any of this means, but Mickey’s starting to realise it’s all coming up for air on it’s own. With Ian’s truths spilling from his lips, his heart across the living room floor. It’s all self-evident, it’s all in the flesh; Mickey’s never felt so at the mercy of another.

Ian takes it and fucks him harder, slamming into him with bruised hips and slapping skin. It’s a twisted symphony, their bodies in harmony, and Mickey blames the hour, the night, the alcohol, he blames everything but his feelings and calls it easier. Only now he knows he’s lying.

“Fucking look so good,” Ian breathes out, and it’s so quiet, it’s so fucking gentle, Mickey thinks he’s dreaming. He thinks suddenly it’s all gotten too much and he’s started to hallucinate, only he knows what he heard. He’s got a distinct line between his head and his heart, sounds he imagines and sounds he hears. He’s got a line drawn up in blood, and Ian’s stepping the wrong side of it.

He‘s stepping the wrong side like it’s something spiritual, like Mickey hasn’t punched him in the face for less. He’s stepping on the wrong side and they both know it. Mickey thinks it wasn’t supposed to be heard. He calls it an explanation and tries to leave it at that, but he can’t, he can’t, he fucking can’t.

Ian’s words spin around his skull, bouncing off bruised corners, melting with the blood. He grits his teeth as Ian hits his prostate, moaning into the scrunched fabric of the bed as Ian exhales against his back.

_ Fucking look so good _

Mickey hears it clawing at his brain, fighting desperate. Ian sighs and thinks nothing’s changed, that Mickey hasn’t heard him, that it’s tugging on every instinct he’s ever had not to run and knock him out on the way.

He doesn’t know why it doesn’t scare him, the same vulnerability tied in with Ian’s voice, the softness, the quietness. He doesn’t know why he doesn’t push him off on that alone. Instead, he mumbles into the sheets, “Fucking harder.”

“What was that?” Ian asks breathlessly. Mickey doesn’t care if he’s pretending not to have heard, if this is all his fucking teasing bullshit, or if he actually didn’t hear it. He doesn’t care.

“Fucking do it harder, alright?” Mickey says again, and he feels the immediate jolt in Ian’s hips as he reacts. Mickey sinks into the mattress, pushing himself back against Ian’s thrusts. It’s this fine line between pleasure and pain, though it always is with them. He couldn’t imagine it any differently; it’s fuck and fight, it’s always fuck and fight. But Mickey struggles to deny the desire for something more.

It’s intoxicating, Ian dragging his hips back, fucking into him harder, Mickey’s face twisting as Ian continually hits just right against his nerves. It’s agony, and it’s making Mickey dizzy. He’s lost in too many spilt truths, gritted teeth a little too close to home, a moment of weakness, letting himself sit exposed. It doesn’t feel right, it doesn’t feel fucking right. But at the same time, Mickey doesn’t think anything’s ever felt better.

He needs this, like he’s proving a point, like this is him staking his claim, even if he can’t declare it. He blames it all on fucked-out thoughts and lets himself think them anyway. It’s so fucking late, and too fucking early, and all Mickey can think of is Ian being his, fucking  _ his _ . Because he doesn’t belong to them at the club, with their hands tucking sweaty notes down his shorts. He doesn’t belong to them, and maybe Mickey’s not any better, maybe he’s fucking worse, but Ian’s his. He’s fucking his.

It comes in a wave of consciousness, paired with Ian fucking into him, the pleasure building until his vision’s hazed and his body can’t keep still, searing fires through his stomach, when he says “Bet you wouldn’t fuck them like this.”

And for a moment the world stops, and Mickey thinks he’s about to fall into something deadly, something he can’t escape from. Until Ian’s biting roughly into his shoulder, he’s mouthing at his back like he can’t keep himself away, rough teeth piercing his skin. Mickey lets himself roll into it, moaning heavily under the lowlights as Ian pulls him impossibly closer, their bodies matching a sheen of sweat as he pounds into him with an unmatched ferocity.

“Why’d you think that, huh?” Ian teases, his voice rough, his words blurred, but Mickey knows he’s smiling. He’s edging his luck, he’s pushing for more. Mickey wants to fucking punch his ribs until one cracks.

“‘Cos you fucking wouldn’t,” Mickey claims, all fucking bravado, all fucking talk. “You wouldn’t.” He says again, like it’s hoping it’s the truth.

Ian doesn’t laugh this time, he doesn’t push him, he doesn’t try and rile him up anymore - the damage has already been done, the truth is already sitting with his heart on the living room floor. He just fucks into him, pushing their hips together, groaning thick in the air. “I thought you didn’t care?”

Mickey lets the world go black, hazy visions behind his eyelids. He doesn’t answer; it says it all for him. He feels Ian reaching a hand around his front to twist around his cock, curling it heavy into his palm to jerk him off quickly, matching his thrusts as he slides a thumb through the wetness across the head. Mickey moans coarsely, his throat raw and his body weak.

He feels the pressure building, all twisted faces, melted words, Ian dancing, riling him up, driving him to this. The heart on the living room floor, the blood dripping from the ripped open wound of his stomach. He feels it all so intensely, and finally he hears Ian’s voice through his head, the quiet soft one Mickey wasn’t supposed to hear. And then he’s whiting out, feeling spikes of pleasure wrack through him as he cums.

Ian doesn’t last much longer, holding him up as he pushes in, fucking himself slower as Mickey clenches around him, and then he’s falling over the edge with him, tumbling as he lets his moans echo through the room, drowning out the sirens coming back into earshot as Mickey collapses forwards into the pillow.

It’s all a blur, desperate roughness suddenly melting away, the fucked-out passion, the raw tones, it all suddenly stops, and Mickey feels bare. He feels this ache of being unprotected, having spoken something as close to meaning as he can get, knowing it’s out there, knowing Ian knows, knowing he can’t take that back.

Mickey’s not used to this, any of this. He doesn’t want to make it a habit, but he doesn’t care just this once, because it’s early, and it’s late, and Mickey’s been watching Ian for hours, this desperation wrecking him from the inside. He feels powerless, lying there as Ian pulls out, does something with the condom that Mickey doesn’t even register before collapsing by his side.

Mickey doesn’t open his eyes, he hears him lying there, fingers moving, their legs brushing, but he doesn’t want to look, he doesn’t want to make it real. He’s not fucking scared, he’s just not used to this, this display, feeling helpless, feeling like he’s been ripped open for the world to see.

Ian doesn’t say anything and Mickey doesn’t volunteer, so the silence takes over. Mickey rubs himself clean with the sheets and pretends to ignore the way he can see Ian’s nose wrinkling up in disgust behind his eyelids. His lips curl up into a smirk but his eyes are still locked shut.

It all sinks in slowly, a weight pressing down on him until he’s got it unlocked, what he said, what it means, what this is. It’s too close to feelings and a little far away from sex. Mickey doesn’t know what to do, with the silence thick in the air, only broken up by sirens and screams outside the window.

_ Fucking look so good _

Mickey hears Ian’s voice vibrating in his head again, the words shooting spirals down his stomach, his dick twitching beneath him. He hears his voice, the gentle softness that Mickey desperately wants to ignore, but something in him can’t.

They don’t do soft, gentle - they fucking don’t. Mickey doesn’t do soft, gentle, and Ian knows that. Ian knows  _ him _ . And he supposes that’s the problem. Only in that moment, when Mickey wasn’t supposed to hear, he felt shivers aching through his spine, a world settled there like a dream.

Mickey hasn’t heard Ian like that since juvie, when Ian sat behind the glass, reaching out to put a hand across it, cut back by Mickey’s tongue, threatening to say ‘I miss you’ before Mickey wanted to kill him. It kills him, hearing it in his head, the growl in his voice, the smirk on Ian’s face, the way he left the visiting room and felt claws through his stomach all evening.

It’s the same now, this confliction that Mickey doesn’t want to face, tied in with a barrel of truths, or one single truth, that he never meant to admit. It’s been a long night, seconds ticking through minutes ticking into hours, and Mickey thinks it’s finally over, but he’s not fucking naive, he knows it’s not.

He wonders what this means, now that he’s said something so fucking stupid, so possessive; he wonders what Ian’s thinking, if he’s suddenly dreaming of white-picket fences because Mickey’s opened up. His fists are still clenched tight together, fighting a rolling frustration to escape, run away and never look back, because this is too much, too fucking much.

And then Mickey opens his eyes, staring across the sheets not to look at  _ him _ . But he’s watching him anyway, the redhead twitching in the sheets, his body curled up facing Mickey. And it’s so fucking gay, and it’s so fucking stupid, and it’s making Mickey want to throw up, but he doesn’t move.

Ian’s looking at him, but Mickey keeps his eyes grounded. He shuffles away from the wet patch in the sheets and stays twisted on his front, refusing to turn and look at him in fear of it being the final nail in the coffin.

The moment’s too delicate, it’s not normal, they don’t  _ do _ this, but Mickey’s not making a move and Ian’s sighing warmly into the pillow. Mickey knows he won’t be washing the pillowcases for a while even if the sheets have to go. He hates it, the softness muffling around his chest, the way he feels himself growing tired in the morning light, he hates that he’s let it happen, let it get this far, only he doesn’t regret it.

And maybe he should, he thinks, lying there with Ian in the corner of his eye. Maybe he should regret it, because Ian knows him, more than anyone, more than Mandy, more than Terry - though he never really tried in the first place - more than  _ anyone _ . Ian’s dug him out, created a nest in his chest and taken root there, taking him to pieces from the inside.

Mickey feels Ian reaching down for the sheets, dragging them over their hips to rest across them gently, and Mickey wonders if that’s it, if Ian’s going to sleep and that’s all. Something in that makes him tense, whether it’s Ian covering himself too, or it’s knowing they’ll have to deal with this tomorrow; either way, it causes Mickey’s eyes to shoot up to Ian’s, desperately searching for something he can’t name.

Ian tilts his head into the pillow, looking shocked, though he covers it well; Mickey wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t spent so much time with him, but then he supposes he knows Ian as well as Ian knows him. There’s something unsettling in that, like trust, only Mickey’s never thought to do trust well.

So Ian’s looking at him, and Mickey can’t look away, because he’s tired, and it’s early, and maybe he just wants to look at him, maybe he’s too tired for excuses. Ian’s got this mark bitten into his neck and Mickey thinks he doesn’t remember doing it, his muscles coiling in the sheets as he suddenly wonders if someone else did it, before it comes back to him that he’s a fucking stupid fucking idiot and it was him after all, somewhere between the doorway and the bed, sucking bruises into his shoulder like poison.

And Mickey’s remembering how it started, in the club, shoving fists at the third bloke of the night, telling him to stay the fuck away just because he got a little too close, shuffling under Ian’s knowing face. And he’s remembering the dance, pushing the rich bloke with the notes tucked into Ian’s waistband out, sinking under the weight of Ian’s thighs on top of him. And he’s thinking of Ian calling him out, jealousy on the tip of his tongue, the world slowing down.

He’s always been possessive and he tries to call that an excuse, only he can see through his own lies. This is different, this isn’t feeling defensive over a gun, frustration when someone borrows his switchblade or drinks his beer. This is  _ Ian _ , and he’s not a fucking toy for men to lay their hands on because he’s his. He’s fucking his.

Mickey sighs, feeling a pressure to punch Ian settling in. It’s familiar, at least, only he doesn’t act on the urge. Ian’s fucking his, and he hates how fucking weak that makes him feel.

“You’re a fucking bitch, you know that right?” Mickey says instead, but the words don’t cut, there’s no venom in his tone. It’s this fucked-out blur, and Ian huffs out a laugh that sounds too close to relief for Mickey’s good.

Ian rolls onto his back, looking up at the ceiling as he mumbles, “Yeah, and you’re fucking impossible.”

Mickey snorts, feeling his feet on familiar footing. Maybe it’s not as bad as he thought, maybe Ian can forgive the spouted possession under the guise of sex with everything a pleasure-filled haze. He lets his head sink into his pillow, smelling the hints of Ian’s shampoo tangled with sweat and sex. It’s disgusting, how much Mickey wants to bury his nose into Ian’s neck.

He laughs, huffing the sound low in his throat, trying to grapple for something, but then Ian’s speaking again, and Mickey should’ve expected it really - Ian’s not one to ignore what’s been said, unless it’s clear he’ll get his balls chopped off if he dares say another word.

“So you  _ were  _ jealous then, huh?” Ian says, a smug look hazing over his features, smirking as he folds his fingers across his chest, his head tilting to look at Mickey.

Mickey scowls, a pressure rising in his chest. “You’re a fucking bitch-”

Ian laughs, “Yeah, you just said that, but that doesn’t answer my question.”

Mickey winces, his eyes scouting Ian’s face as he fights for some reasoning, something that’s not that close to the truth, because he’s already spilled blood on the floor, he doesn’t want anymore out in the open, ready to haunt him. But maybe he supposes it already is, maybe it’s already out there, hiding between the blood, the words, the punches at the club. Maybe the truth’s already surfaced, maybe Mickey’s just in denial.

Ian turns away, looking at the ceiling again, and Mickey wonders if it’s so he doesn’t look confrontational, or because he thinks he won’t get an answer. Either way, Mickey finds it stupid, and infuriating, and he wants to murder him, though again, it’s nothing new.

He grits his teeth and looks at the peace flickering over Ian’s face, his chest rising and falling as he lies and waits. Mickey feels this world, this daydream, this nightmare, dangling over a chasm, fire burning beneath, smoke filling his lungs. He thinks about the truth, and thinks about a lie, and finds himself hating what he wants to say.

But he wants to say it anyway, because he wants Ian’s response, the flicker of the flames reflected in his eyes. Vulnerability itches at his skin, ripping him open again, and Mickey thinks he’s going to bleed out against the sheets again, but Ian’s by his side, and it’s fucking stupid, and Mickey wants to fucking knock himself out, but Ian’s breathing in slowly, and it helps. It helps. It shouldn’t fucking help.

“Should I be?” Mickey grinds out, despising every second that follows. He sees Ian’s face morphing into something he can’t name, twisting features looking pained, thinking Mickey’s made a mistake, before it levels out so softly that he feels his chest unwind. And he fucking hates himself for it. “Jealous?” Mickey says, pushing it, because Ian’s too busy to respond.

“No,” Ian says, like that’s all there is to it. And maybe it is, because Mickey hears something in his tone, the soft recognition behind his eyes when he turns to face him, the way he feels imagined hands funnelling blood back into his body, pumping at his heart, refound in the living room, into his chest. Mickey hears it all, and he wants to choke him for being so fucking soft.

Only he doesn’t have any feet to stand on, because his shoulders drop at the reply, his muscles evening out, his body sinking into the mattress. He feels Ian sewing him back up, ripped open caverns being fixed with gentle hands and soft voices. He hates it, that he lets himself be pieced back togther in his bed with a redheaded boy that wasn’t supposed to mean anything.

Only he’s past lying, and they both know he does. Ian means something, even if he hasn’t figured out what yet. He feels the breath leave his lungs when he thinks that, when it crosses his mind as truth instead of a lie, when he gathers himself back together, and sees Ian looking at him, open and stupid.

Mickey hates him, he decides. And he thinks that’s one lie that can stay.

There’s a quiet that settles in, only it feels more like peace than fear. Ian reaches a hand across Mickey’s neck, fingers dancing over the bruises sucked into his collar bone. Mickey narrowly resists knocking his hand away. He’s too tired to fight it now, or maybe he’s too weak, either way, he tries to tell himself he doesn’t mind, and maybe he doesn’t, because the touch is gentle, and it’s Ian, and maybe it’s the closest to warmth he’s felt, so maybe he doesn’t mind at all.

“Fuck you,” Mickey mumbles into the pillowcase, desperately clinging onto something he knows, something they know together. He sees Ian smiling and refrains from joining him.

“Yeah, you fucking too.” Ian shakes his head, his hand sinking off Mickey’s neck to lie between them. He looks fucking relieved, grinning at him like that, and maybe Mickey understands, because he feels a fucking stupid expression of his own crossing his features. He tries to hate it, but he’s too tired in the end to care, and maybe that’s an excuse as well, but for tonight, in the early hours, he lets it slide, and lets his hand fall across Ian’s between them.

The smile that glows across Ian’s face is worth it, that maybe all of this is, and Mickey supposes that’s not a bad thing, not a fucking bad thing at all.

**Author's Note:**

> thank u for reading genuinely absolutely fills my tiny cold heart with joy so thank u i hope u liked it sorry if i got a bit too Feelings tm but i have a lot of them about mickey milkovich so here is the outburst
> 
> please kudos and comment and shit cos that's rly the sweetest thing and i appreciate every single one so much
> 
> hope ur having a lovely day and u enjoyed whatever the fuck this was xxx


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